


Daggers and Bidents

by Lightning_Strikes_Again



Category: Blood of Zeus (Cartoon)
Genre: Enemies to Lovers, Even if they're on opposite sides, F/M, Seralexia, Seraphim compliments Alexia an awful lot throughout the show, Spoilers for Blood of Zeus season 1, Still mostly in enemy mode
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:02:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27336859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lightning_Strikes_Again/pseuds/Lightning_Strikes_Again
Summary: An AU of season 1, episode 4: What if Seraphim had corned the real Alexia beneath that waterfall? Seralexia if you squint.
Relationships: Seraphim/Alexia
Comments: 11
Kudos: 90





	Daggers and Bidents

Archon Alexia feels the sharp blade of the bident cut into her cheek, the metal slicing into the rock behind her. Red blood spurts as she jerks away with a strangled noise from her throat. From beyond the waterfall, a great winged beast carrying a demon appears.

The demon is humanoid and powerful in form, his dark cape fluttering about him, his blue skin and white hair glimmering from the waters. His eyes glow red, tracking her. His lip pulls up in a smile as he recalls his bident. “I must say. Your reputation precedes you. And I’m not easily impressed.”

Alexia rasps out a harsh breath, narrowing her eyes. “…Neither am I.” Her fingers grab for a dagger from her belt, and she levels it at him, calculating her next moves. The demon leader has pinned her in, but this is an advantage. This means he has limited his movements as well. And he is tall and strong, but he relies all too much on his bident. His jaw tilts with a pride that she can already see herself using against him.

“You will give me your map, Archon,” he declares to her. And then he gracefully drops down from his monster in a blur of inhuman movement, swinging his bident.

Alexia side-steps, whipping around to lunge at him with his dagger.

The bident’s staff blocks the blow, his blue muscles flexing with quick energy to compensate. His form is large against her own. His shoulders block the sight of the waterfall behind them both, but water droplets flip between them like diamonds.

She backsteps, turning in a desperate attempt to gain higher ground against him. This demon leader is strong—far stronger than a mortal man. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He narrows his glowing red eyes, which are the eyes of nightmares. “Yes, you do. And I will have it.”

His strength is a battering ram. Every blow shakes her arms and rattles her bones as she levels the dagger against his bident. In the blur, the blade knicks the bident staff again and again.

Its worth is nothing to him compared to her and her map.

His sharp face remains emotionless and focused upon her with every strike. His body flexes in a spin as he tosses the bident at her chest.

Alexia barely manages to evade it.

Sharp metal sinks back into wet rock behind her.

The demon leader grunts in a mild irritation, then recalls his bident.

Alexia instinctively spins her dagger to skewer the demon and grabs on as the bident zooms by her, back to its master.

The world blurs.

And the next thing she knows, the demon’s hand is wrapped around the bident—and his other hand, wrapped around her own, staying the dagger from slicing into his heart. Her face is inches from his, their breaths mixing together in the silence of the waterfall around them.

They both pause.

His hand is hot like a summer’s day, burning with the living power of the Giants. This close, his red eyes appear as a fine wine, searching her own.

She can see it then, so close.

A soul shining out from his sharp face.

He is staring at her in _appreciation_ , rather than fear or anger. He is genuinely struggling to hold off her fatal dagger. “Is it true?” he demands. He has long eyelashes that glimmer white. “What they say of Amazonians?”

Alexia’s breath is still unsteady, puffing against his thick, white hair. She figures a demon would smell of brimstone and sulfur, but this being before her smells like the frosty snow atop a mountain. Her bloody cheek itches. “What do they say of us?”

He still does not pull away. “That they descend from Ares,” he murmurs. His deep voice is slightly diminutive, but curious. “That you have god-blood in you.”

“It doesn’t matter what I have in me,” she whispers. She dares to lean forward. “Only that I’m going to slay your army and end your tyranny, for all the evil you’ve done.”

The demon leader’s full lips split to reveal sharp, bright white fangs. “What spirit,” he murmurs back to her, his voice modulating with the resonance of wry amusement. “You are _angry_ with me.”

“You killed innocent people,” she snaps back, voice hitching. “Mothers and fathers.”

His handsome face—the lines of his face are strong—twitches. “Corrupted and cruel.” He leans forward himself, his forehead nearly leaning against her own. “And you have killed many of my own people, skewering them like pigs.”

“You are demons.”

“We are the people of Melidoni.” His voice carries a lilt, but it is dark. “We are what we are, but humanity fails even my lowest expectations.”

Between them, Alexia is still struggling to push the dagger into his chest. His hand is wrapped firmly around her wrist, straining to withhold her.

“Except for you,” he murmurs. “But you are not fully human, are you. No Amazonian is.”

Her strength falters.

His grip on her tightens as he searches her eyes. “The fact is, Archon Alexia, you have more in common with me than the humans you protect.” He releases her entirely then, pulling back.

She stumbles back as well, heart pounding, eyes wide. “We’re nothing alike.”

His head tilts, his wet hair streaming against his cheek, where a scar glows down to his jaw. “I am Seraphim, leader of the Melidoni. Heir of the Giants. And you carry god-blood in you, as an Amazonian.”

Her face hardens, even as the cut upon her cheek continues to clot and itch in a quick healing. “That is the _opposite_ of what you are.” 

“Is it?” he demands softly. “You judge me for being cruel, but the gods are worse. They delight in our misery. Even now, they delight in your death at my hand, for no god is here to save you. Not even the founder of your kind, Ares.”

There is a pause.

Then Alexia grunts, tensing into a lunge.

Seraphim side-steps her quickly, but the dagger catches a tie in his hair. Thick white locks fan out across his shoulders, spilling forth from the fallen tie. A few white strands of hair slip to the wet rocks at their feet.

In a blur, he strikes her back with the flat-end of the bident. She stumbles forward, slashing at his leg—his body a haze of blue and red—

—A sharp noise of pain escapes him as metal slices deep through skin, catching the back of his calf and slicing down to his ankle. His handsome face twists as he drops to his knee in pain, his white hair flaring about him.

The waterfall rushes around them. The little pool at their feet runs red with Seraphim’s blood.

She desperately moves to pull herself back up, only to feel the sharp edge of a golden blade at her throat. It is cold and wet, biting into her skin with a warning.

Their breaths rasp in a united echo off the cave walls.

She holds still, her skin paling as she gasps for breath. The map is at her side. She realizes she could ruin it in the water before he slits her throat.

But he hesitates to move.

Instead, the blade holds steady against her as he grunts, his handsome face pulling in mild pain from his wound. “Not just anyone,” he says, “can land a blow upon me. How magnificent you would—” his voice falters briefly “—you would be if you converted.” 

Alexia’s eyes snap to him, wide. “I won’t convert,” she rasps out. She drops her dagger, having to choose between it or ruining the map. She knows she is likely already dead.

The dagger slips into the small pool, the demon’s blood lifting from the metal in tendrils of red.

Seraphim’s full lips stretch. His white hair is matted against him from the waterfall and from his own sweat. His chest heaves with breath. “I admire you,” he says breathlessly. “You are the only one who has so resisted both conversion and death. You do not—fit into my categories for this world.”

“I make my own way.” And she slams the map into the water, eyeing him directly. Daring him to slit her throat.

His face twitches. “How like me you are,” he mourns. 

He suddenly pulls back his bident.

Alexia inhales, tensing in preparation for the killing thrust—

But it never comes.

The demon king is woozy from his own blood loss. His sharp mind fragments. He lowers his bident entirely, tossing it aside in interest of the map, which is waterlogged beneath her fingers. His large, burning hand grabs onto her arm to pull her away from it. “But you are—yet a fool.”

“As are you,” she snaps back, headbutting him and tightening her grasp on the map.

He grunts.

She pulls away, taking with her one half of the torn, waterlogged map.

Seraphim makes a displeased noise, then disjointedly grabs for her golden braid with one hand, reaching with his other for the other half of the map before it can float away.

Alexia cries out as her temples light up with pain. Her trembling legs strain.

His wet fingers begin to slip against her hair.

And then suddenly, something snaps. Her tie unravels, her long, golden hair unsettling from its braid. She stumbles forward in a splash into the pool, her hand and forearm slicing against the very dagger she had dropped. She whimpers as sharp metal bites into her palm, and she collapses hard into the water, her hair fanning around her in the waters.

Her blood distorts the water further, leeching into the map.

Seraphim snarls.

Tears burn her eyes, but she shakily pulls her injured hand up, afraid to look at it. She curls her half of the map into her blooded palm.

For one wild moment, she thinks perhaps she is dead—that he has finally speared her on that bident in fury—

But it’s only her own maddening heartbeat as Seraphim pulls her from the waters, roughly setting her on the rocks and yanking the map from her hands.

Both of them are now shivering and bloodied, breathing hard.

Her long hair swirls against his own in the pool of water as the falls crash around them.

Seraphim stares at her in a deep frustration. “You have ruined the map,” he snarls. His face breaks in an odd way. He stares at the ruby blood streaming from her slit hand.

His own form seems to swoon from injury. 

She leans against the rocks, trembling in pain, ears ringing. She manages, despite the nausea from pain, a weak smile. “You won’t get this map,” she says. “I’ll die first.”

Those wine-red eyes snap back to her.

And then this demon lord does the strangest thing.

His face falters in a woozy realization. “I…believe you.” He stuffs her bloodied half of the map into his belt, alongside his half. Then, he tears part of his cloak with his bare hands.

She thinks he means to strangle her with it, and she jerks away from him, or tries to. The blood loss has made her woozy. For however many drops of god-blood run through her veins, it is not enough to stay such a wound. She feels lightheaded now.

Even in that moment, she blearily tries to reach for his belt with her bloodied hand, where the she could see the map—

—His fingers wrap around her own. 

And he wraps the swatch of cloth around her hand to staunch the flow of blood.

It’s only in the midst of her haze that Alexia realizes this demon man before her is genuinely handsome—that she has even _seen_ his face somehow in the past. The more she looks at him, the more he feels familiar to her.

He’s _helping_ her.

And then, for all the pain and suffering in her, in she begins to laugh. It’s a rough, merry sound. Her fingers weakly twitch in his own. 

It’s perhaps a form of insanity to laugh in the presence of Seraphim. 

She’s fairly certain she’s hallucinating him wrapping her hand anyway.

Seraphim stares at her in a disgruntled mix of awe and frustration. The blue of his cheeks sharpens with a purple from a flush. He ties the cloth tight against her skin to hold pressure against the flow of blood. And then he releases her. 

It hits her that perhaps blood loss has affected him as well, and that the wound she’d inflicted upon him is much deeper and closer to a major artery than she first believed. The pool of water is red with his and her mixed blood. His movements are slightly off-kilter, his eyes dazed. He raises his hand to recall his bident.

It zooms through the air to land solidly in his grasp. But that is all he manages. He weakens to his knees, unsteady as he grasps hard onto the bident’s staff for balance, unable to place weight upon his injured leg. And then his lips split in a hilarity—and a delight. “I thought you weak,” he says breathlessly. “But you—defy expectations.”

And then a strange look crosses his face. “I staunched y-your hand,” he said. “So you _will_ assist me.”

Alexia watches as the man begins to swoon in blood loss and awe.

She could theoretically grab for her dagger and slit his throat and be done with him forever. She is correct that his pride would be his downfall—he had underestimated her reflexes.

But Alexia hadn’t expected his form of honor either, or the black cloth that now was soaking blood from her wound.

She breathes unsteadily as she watches him pale from blood loss.

A terrible form of obligation overcomes her.

This man, in a moment of need, has called upon her honor to save himself. She narrows her eyes, blearily beginning to move toward him, shaky herself from blood loss. “Fine,” she rasps, “but if I—h-help you, I’m keeping the map.”

And she weakly pulls both halves from his belt, and his face splits in something of almost amusement as he leans back against the rocks. For the first time in many years, Seraphim of the Melidoni closes his eyes before another person, daring to show weakness. His face tightens in agony from the great wound down his leg.

For Archon Alexia, he thinks, is of the strong.

And the strong strengthen the strong.

Which is why, for all of his irritation that she will not convert, he wouldn’t mind her staying just as she is.

Alexia awkwardly begins to pull at the fabric of her red cloak and says roughly, “You won’t say a _word_ about this. To anyone.”

His red eyes open and track her blearily. He manages a twitch of his lips. There is a look in his tired eye that makes him seem handsome.

He _trusts_ her to be who she is. “Neither will you,” he grumps eventually.

It sounds almost fond. 

**Author's Note:**

> Forgive me, I have sinned. I'm a sucker for enemies to lovers vibes. And despite being on opposite sides, Seraphim seems to really crave wanting Alexia on his side. He hesitates to kill her multiple times. And then he even compliments her as an equal. Idk if I'll stick with this ship, but the idea hit me and I had to get it out of my head, lol.
> 
> Also, idk if "seralexia" is the ship name people will go for with these characters, but it rolled off the tongue for me, so I ran with it. XD
> 
> Please review! Thanks for reading!


End file.
